


Cannes

by uchiha_s



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Past Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 05:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14710305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: Oneshot, Post-DH, epilogue compliant. Hermione is forced to accompany Blaise on a trip for Ministry business. HG/BZ





	Cannes

It had been a long time since she'd been on a business trip, thanks to Hugo and Rose—and, well, to be fair, thanks to Ron as well. Ron whinged nearly as much as the children any time she was gone longer than an eight hour span—if not more than them—and Hermione had had enough and had informed her boss accordingly.

However, Rose was fifteen now and Hugo had just started his first year at Hogwarts, and given the many pictures populating her overcrowded office, she couldn't exactly lie and say she had to stay home with the children anymore. Rose was more than competent enough, anyway (she took after her mother in more than just looks, it seemed) and Hugo was, like Ron, plucky enough to escape any mishap.

But when the assignment did finally fly onto her desk, Hermione did not exactly put up a fight about it. Immediately she found herself transported to another, more exciting time in her life—a time of crisis, a time where she had had to prove herself in ways beyond her admirable intellect.

Not that she was  _complaining._ Her life was picture-perfect. They lived in a lovely house in London, afforded by her impressive salary as well as the money that never seemed to stop coming in due to hers and Ron's parts in the Golden Trio. She and Ron were content, and sometimes she was so proud of her children that she didn't even know what to do with herself.

But it was honestly boring. The desk job would have been fine, if not for the fact that her job  _really_  meant dealing with morons via Floo and Owl all the time. Thus she spent rather sparse time on actual research, and the monotony of a daily grind filled with repeating herself and citing the same old laws was getting to her. She was worn out, and the instant the memo fell onto her desk, she was filled with a surge of energy that she hadn't felt in years.

She stared at the parchment, her hands quivering with adrenaline. For all of the grousing she had done about their narrow escapes from dragons, trolls, and Death Eaters, Hermione had missed adventure. Enough time had passed that she was craving it; her blood was  _singing_  for it.

A knock at her door startled her out of her reverie, and, for some reason, Hermione stuffed the memo away. It was hardly a secret, obviously, but her cheeks flushed as though she had been looking at something private anyway.

“C-come in,” she stammered, running her hands through her bushy hair in an attempt to flatten it to a presentable level. This did nothing, of course, and as the door swung open, Hermione wondered if she would ever stop feeling a little bit like she was still thirteen years old.

Blaise Zabini was standing in her doorway. He had aged more than well, as expected, and was, as always, clad in immaculate robes of an unusual color that only heightened his appeal. “Zabini,” she blustered, “what brings you here?”

Blaise didn't even work in her department—he was much more a part of the international relations department, and was an integral part of it. What was he doing here? He leaned against the doorframe, the sleeves of his robes shoved up carelessly, displaying taut smooth forearms, and observed her, arching a dark brow at her, radiating frosty disdain.

“The assignment?” he prompted. “You probably were only alerted to it moments ago.” Hermione's flush reddened. It wasn't that she liked Blaise—for Merlin's sake, she was  _a married woman_ —but it was hard to know how to behave around such an attractive man. No matter how many years they had worked together, she never had grown accustomed to the air of sensuality he seemed to radiate. He was Ron's polar opposite in so many ways—where Ron was pale and soft, Blaise was dark and hard; where Ron was sweet and boyish, Blaise was a  _man_  and yet, somehow, there was an effeminate quality about him that didn't lessen his masculinity. It was perhaps his sense of style: innately he wore his clothing like a second skin. She could not help but make the comparison between two starkly different men as her husband and Blaise.

“Right. Yes.” She fumbled through the drawers until she found the memo, crumpled up, and somehow already stained with coffee. “It says I'm to go to Paris on research Monday next,” she read aloud, fruitlessly attempting to smooth out the paper.

Blaise's eyes, a light, clear blue that was unexpected in such a dark face, narrowed, only heightening the regal disdain inherent in his sculpted features.

“Yes, Granger—you're to go _with me_.”

“Weasley,” she corrected absently. She was so used to people either forgetting or ignoring her marriage to Ron that it no longer incited her irritation. “What is the trip for, at any rate?”

“The Department of Mysteries needs a runes expert to look at some findings in Paris, and everyone recommended you above the other Ministry resident rune experts,” Blaise explained as he examined his nails. “I'm to go with you to ensure you do not injure the ver…. tenuous... relationship we currently have with France's Ministry.”

This, however,  _did_  inspire some irritation.

“You don't think I can manage not to offend anyone?” she asked stiffly. Blaise arched a brow at her.

“That happens to be exactly what I think.”

Hermione opened and closed her mouth. In spite of her attraction to Blaise, during every interaction the word  _Mudblood_  seemed to hang in the air between them. Blaise had never been one of the Death Eaters, and he had never outright called her Mudblood, but his friends all had, and he had never seemed to object to it. She could not quite pin down which side of the moral fence Blaise was on, and so she could only guess—and given the evidence, it wasn't a favorable guess. She knew Blaise was neither a kind nor honorable man, and he had never behaved in a way to suggest there was anything good or benevolent about him. He only did good things to keep up appearances, and though it was this trait that made him so remarkably good at his job, it was also a trait that she found hard to respect.

“Well, I suppose all evidence points to me being awfully irresponsible,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. Blaise did not react to this; he merely continued to stare at her with those eerily lovely eyes. Goosebumps rose along her skin; she wished he would look at something else.

“I have a meeting now,” he finally said, “but tomorrow at one we will have a meeting to discuss the finer points of the business trip. I've already checked your schedule with your secretary, so don't bother telling me you haven't time.”

At that, he turned and left, his rare and musky cologne lingering in the air even after he had been gone. Against her better judgment, Hermione closed her eyes, breathing it in. In spite of her love for Ron, she could not help but appreciate a man who took care of himself. Appearances were everything with Blaise, that she knew, but what a lovely facade it was!

* * *

The next day, Hermione arrived at work feeling clammy and shaky. She wondered all day if she were possibly ill until she realized, with horror, that she was actually  _nervous_ about traveling with Blaise. At dinner the night before, she hadn't been able to tell Ron she would be traveling. It meant, as Rose and Hugo were already back at school, that he'd be alone—she didn't yet know how long, even. She had tried to tell him several times, but the words remained stuck in her throat. Worse yet was that the guilt she always felt for looking at any man other than her husband was surging through her, as always the case after having to interact with Blaise—this in addition to the guilt she felt for being attracted to someone who might or might not refer to her as Mudblood.

The time came, after lunch, for the meeting. Hermione tried to busy herself and forget about the silliness going on in her mind. It would be good, she reasoned, to get away from her desk, and furthermore, it was likely that she was just getting so flustered by Blaise due to the fact that it had been a long time—years, in fact—since she had been intimate with Ron.

This was her fault, though. A few years after having Hugo, she and Ron had tried for a third child, but she had miscarried—she had miscarried quite late into the pregnancy, actually. It didn't matter how many people consoled her, or told her that nearly everyone miscarried at some point and that, as tragic as it was, it was not the end of the world—after that, she had lost her sex drive, it seemed.

And Ron had been so understanding! It nearly made her weep at how sweet he had been, for so many years. How patient, how loving, how understanding, how empathetic. When the miscarriage had occurred, they had sat together in their room, on their bed, crying silently together at the loss. After that, he had given her space and rest, and had taken care of the children admirably. Her horror at no longer being attracted to Ron—the worthiest man in the world—but somehow finding desire for  _Blaise  Zabini_, of all the men in the world, was making her jumpy and sick with guilt and self-hatred.

He knocked but came in before she could bid him entry. Her gaze flicked to the clock—exactly on time, as usual.

“Zabini,” she greeted, rising from her chair and brushing her sweaty palms against her robes. Blaise sauntered in and took a seat across from her.

“Granger.”

“Weasley,” she corrected. “So... details of the trip?”

“Business as usual,” Blaise said, conjuring a scroll and unfurling it on the desk between them. She reached out to help and their hands brushed. Hastily she snatched her hands away, her cheeks flushing. She cleared her throat, feeling Blaise's eyes boring holes into her.

“Right. We go Monday...how long will we be there?”

“As long as it takes you to decode the runes,” said Blaise. “We will be staying in a cottage on the Riviera after acquiring the documents in Paris. You will spend your time decoding; likewise, I will spend mine consorting with French wizarding diplomats, to hopefully strengthen the delicate bonds we have with them.”

“So, I decode; you wine and dine,” Hermione confirmed, nodding. “Why at a cottage?”

“It was the French minister's idea of hospitality,” drawled Blaise, rolling his eyes. His voice was so velvety and deep that it made her heart race. “Rather silly, as I will be Apparating to Paris every day while we are there anyway, and as you will just be sleeping, eating, and decoding, it won't matter where you are. But we will have to demonstrate our appreciation.”

“How will we be thanking them for their hospitality?”

Blaise snorted.

“Some plant. You'd know it on sight, I am sure; it is apparently quite rare, and you know how the French are.”

Hermione was unsure of what this meant, but she nodded anyway. Her cheeks had further flushed with his implicit compliment, and she tried to not look too pleased with herself. “Here is our itinerary: we will meet here in your office on Monday at six o'clock in the morning. From here we will take a portkey to a secured location in the French Ministry, where you will be presented with the documents containing the runes. There we will take another portkey to our cottage... And after that, the timing is really up to you, though the longer you can take, the better.”

“Longer? Why? So you have more time to socialize with the diplomats?”

“Precisely.” Blaise rolled up the parchment again; the shifting of his body beneath his robes was distracting, and Hermione felt a stab of irritation. Why did her bloody sex drive choose right  _now_  to make its unnanounced return? After all this time, why now, and why with Blaise?

Over the desk, their eyes met. Hermione took a deep breath.

“Look, I know you don't like me,” she began hesitantly, “but I really appreciate you trying to work past it in honour of our jobs.”

Blaise regarded her; his jaw tensed and it sharpened his cheekbones. He truly was breathtaking, and Hermione now thought of the multitude of rumors of his beautiful but ruthless mother. If he had gotten his features from her, then it was no surprise that she had bewitched so many men. Blaise himself was truly bewitching; you could not help but desire a face and frame like that.

“I never said I disliked you,” he finally replied, his eyes narrowed. Hermione cleared her throat.

“No, but the fact that you supported Malfoy and Pansy and the others in calling me Mudblood all day long sort of spoke for itself,” she replied tersely. Blaise's lips quirked, as though he were stifling a rude comment.

“You weren't entirely innocent in school either, Granger.”

“Weasley.”

Now he appeared to be fighting back a laugh.

“Must I recall for you that amusing little trick you played on the Ravenclaw girl who 'snitched'?”

Hermione's cheeks bloomed anew.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said coolly. Blaise leaned forward, his lips curving into a smirk.

“Oh? What about stealing from Professor Snape's private wares?” His sensuous voice was barely above a whisper. “Or Confunding McLaggen so your precious Weasley could make it onto the Quidditch team? ...Not that that wasn't absolutely hilarious,” he recalled now, smirking at the memory. “Not to mention all of the things you did during the war to 'help' Potter,” he added silkily.

“Those were--”

“Ah ah,” he interrupted. “If you really were so pure at heart, you would never have done any of that.” He paused now, his eyes searching her face, then roving freely over her form. “...But these examples are precisely why I  _do_  like you, Granger.”

She opened her mouth to correct him, but found she had lost the ability to speak. “We're both cunning, ruthless, and far too clever for our own good,” he continued, as he stowed the scroll in his robes, “which is why, I believe, we will work quite well together.”

He rose to his feet and she was hit with a burst of his scent. She could only stare at him. Out of all of the retorts that came to mind, none of them seemed quite to suffice. Clever words would not help her now, only damn her further. “See you Monday,” he said over his shoulder as he left.

* * *

Monday came too soon; the more she dreaded it, the faster time seemed to go. After finally informing Ron of her impending departure, his response was not at all the one she had been expecting: he was perfectly accepting, and made jokes about running home to Molly so he wouldn't starve.

On Sunday night, she turned to him in the darkness with uncertain hands. He looked at her with blue eyes so wide and so different from Blaise's blue eyes. She bit her lip, nodding, and clambered awkwardly on top of her husband, her nightgown riding up. Ron gave a shaky exhalation as he skimmed his hands up her thighs, pausing to rest his hands on her naked hips. Hermione felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment—she had forgotten how awkward sex with Ron could be—as she braced her hands on his chest. She could feel his arousal pressing against her sex; his skin was growing flushed and blotchy, as it always had when he got aroused. His hands massaged her hips as she grazed her nails over his skin.

“Hermione,” he rasped, as he struggled to sit up and press a wet, clumsy kiss to her lips. He pulled the straps of her nightgown down and trailed his mouth along her breasts, pausing to suck on her nipples. She closed her eyes, waiting for heat to spread to her sex. Unbidden, the image of Blaise doing the same thing flicked in her mind, and before she could stop herself, a soft hum escaped her lips. Ron slipped a hand between her lips and groaned when his fingers found her wetness, and he thrust them upward, letting out another guttural moan as his fingers explored her tightness.

It had been so long since she had been touched there... her automatic, visceral reaction was to tense and pull away.

“S-sorry,” she muttered, as she hastened off the bed, pulling up her nightdress, and disappeared into the bathroom. She slumped down on the closed toilet seat and felt hot tears prick her vision, and furiously she wiped at them. She heard a knock on the door, and she tensed.

“Hermione,” came Ron's weary, strained voice, “it's alright. I appreciate you trying.”

She opened her mouth to reply, to apologize, but she only managed to let out a shuddering, teary breath. “Seriously. It's alright. Just come back to bed,” he added, his voice softening. Hermione rose to her feet and looked at herself in the mirror. Under the fluorescent lighting, she looked older than forty five, and much more tired. She wiped at her eyes again and flicked off the light before opening the door. Ron held her in his arms, pressing a kiss to her forehead, before guiding her back to the bed.

She couldn't fall asleep, though, even as Ron's snores sounded in her ear, his arm heavy across her body. She remained wide-awake all night, unable to fall asleep. The time to get up and go to the Ministry drew nearer and nearer, and by the time her alarm charm went off, it was almost a relief.

Whatever happened now, she'd have to deal with it.

She arrived at her office; Blaise was already there, seated in her chair, examining a photoraph of her family. Hermione scowled, dropping her bag on the floor.

“Good to see you are comfortable,” she greeted with a glower. Blaise flicked his gaze up to her.

“Your daughter looks just like you at that age.” His voice was surprisingly soft; Hermione's throat constricted until she saw him set the picture down. “I suppose we should be off. The portkey is here.” He pointed to her desk, where an old gym sock lay. “Disgusting, and probably not necessary,” he added. Hermione let out a giggle before she could stop herself.

“Right.” She reached out, and their eyes met once more, their hands hovering over the sock. “Off we go, then.”

“Indeed,” he drawled, and at the same time, they grasped the portkey.

* * *

 It had been a long day, and it wasn't even lunch yet.

The runes that needed decoding were contained in a scroll so old and decrepit that it was a wonder it was even legible. After a particularly strained meeting with the French Minister, they were escorted to the cottage on the Riviera.

It was a lovely day, the sun glimmered on the sea, and their cottage was nestled in a grove of trees overlooking a private beach. This was all well and good, until Hermione saw that the two bedrooms were connected, both leading out onto one balcony. At the sight of it, her cheeks burst aflame.  _I am a married, mature woman who is perfectly fine with spending time in a joint bedroom with a man who was best friends with my enemy in school,_ she coached herself with little to no success.

“It's beautiful,” she said as they stepped inside the cottage. In the distance, the sound of gulls and gently lapping waves could be heard. It should have been relaxing, but Hermione felt tense and awkward.

“Luckily I think you could accomplish work in the middle of an orgy, so we won't have to worry about your productivity,” Blaise drawled, stepping ahead of her and setting his luggage by a low carved table. He craned his neck, looking about the main entrance, as Hermione scowled at him.

“Thank you for implying my lack of sexuality,” she sputtered, gripping the handle of her bag perhaps a bit tighter than necessary, her knuckles bleaching with the effort. Blaise glanced back over his svelte shoulder at her, a slight smirk threatening to broaden on his full lips.

“I never implied a thing about your sexuality—merely about your self-control. Who knows, Granger—perhaps you're more perverse and wild than the rest of us.”

“Weasley,” she corrected tightly. Again, Blaise did not acknowledge the correction, though there was an odd moment when their eyes met before his gaze flicked away again. Her stomach clenched in anticipation. “You must be hungry,” she added hastily. “I know I am. Would you like lunch?” She hurried to the kitchen, which was decorated with hand-painted tiles and copper pots and pans hanging from hooks on the low ceiling. She bustled through the pantry in search of food, but they were fresh out of everything.

Blaise leaned against the wall, observing her.

“You know, I'm not a child, and right now, you are not a mum,” he pointed out. Hermione straightened, peering at him from across the kitchen curiously.

“Okay, fine. Let's just go grab something, then, and I'll leave you to your consorting, and you can leave me to my decoding,” she blustered, throwing up her arms. Blaise's lips quirked.

“Great minds think alike,” he said coolly. Hermione sighed and ran a hand through her hair. She hated how flustered she always felt around him, and she really needed to get a grip, if she wanted to get through this mission without her head exploding.

“Right. Let me get changed into something less London appropriate, and more Cannes appropriate,” she said, and pushed past Blaise. “I'll take the left bedroom,” she called, her voice echoing through the house.

She threw her bag on the large bed and dug through it, up to her arms, before fishing out one of her sundresses. Ginny insisted it was matronly, but she quite liked how breezy and free it was. She slipped it over her head and stood before the mirror, and with horror realized Ginny was right—more right than she wanted to admit. She looked frumpy and old compared to Blaise, but she didn't trust herself with a Transfiguration spell to modify the dress without making it worse.

When she left her room, Blaise was missing, however. She soon found him on their shared balcony, leaning against the railing. He had shed his handsome dark blue robes in favor of tailored slacks and a white button-up shirt, the sleeves pushed up carelessly, as seemed to be his trademark. He looked so at home there that she could not help but stand and admire the lean, straight lines of his angular body and features, and the inherent grace in those lines. He was a beautiful man.

“Well, I don't look like I'm ready to be an ad out of  _Witch Weekly_  like you, but this is more comfortable,” she said awkwardly, going to stand by Blaise. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“I believe Umbridge would be a fan,” he sneered, and Hermione batted at him while sniggering to herself.

“Oh, Umbridge—I nearly forgot about her,” she sighed. Their elbows brushed and she drew away as though galvanized. Blaise turned to face her, slightly, still leaning on the railing. This close, she could see the flecks of gold in his otherwise crystalline blue eyes, and she could scent his cologne. A flare of desire warmed her, and it was upsetting and confusing. Why was she attracted to Blaise but not her husband, the man she loved unconditionally?

“How could you forget about Umbridge, given you were the ruin of her?” he pointed out. Hermione flushed darkly. She noticed the crow's feet about his eyes and had the unexpected urge to kiss him there. “You're so much more bad than you want to believe,” he added in a softer, more sibilant voice.

“...We should get lunch,” she said, her mouth having gone dry. She tucked her hair behind her ears self-consciously, looking away. “I for one am starving, but I suppose that's what you get for living with a man who can eat more than a troll,” she sighed.

They began the walk down to the town, their sandals clacking on the cobblestone. “So... are you...married?” she asked uncertainly. Blaise snorted.

“Me? Married? I do not exactly support the institution of marriage. It is...inconvenient.” He looked at Hermione. “And do you find it convenient? Is it worth the commitment? The loss of choice? The robbery of freedom?”

Hermione pressed her lips together to avoid snapping at him.

“It's worth everything,” she finally said. They came upon a road with outdoor bistros and shops, packed with tourists and locals alike.

“I suppose I'll lie and say I believe you, for now...” he trailed off as they became absorbed in the issue of finding a table at a restaurant.

Finally they did, outside underneath an umbrella, and the time flew by as they began discussing some of what Blaise was working on in his department. He was actually quite immersed in his job, she soon realized, and her attraction deepened. When he wasn't sneering at her disdainfully, he was an intelligent and thoughtful man—perhaps a bit too pragmatic and heartless, and yet, she could not help but respect him all the more.

 _He's no Ron,_ a small voice pointed out in her mind.  _But he's something so different,_ argued another, slyer voice. Hermione wanted to slap herself. This was too frustrating, and too confusing. The wine that Blaise insisted they order wasn't helping either, and though it was supposedly a 'light' white burgundy, she was already feeling tipsy and silly.

“So,” she began, slumping in her seat slightly, “are the rumors true?”

“About me?” Blaise arched his brows in mock innocence, and Hermione snorted.

“I heard that you found Ginny attractive.”

Blaise shrugged.

“Who wouldn't, with an arse like that? She was amusing, anyway. Always looking for a fight,” he said, narrowing his eyes in thought, apparently recalling something. “It's odd to talk like this. It makes Hogwarts feel like it was yesterday, and not more than half my life ago.”

“I know. And yet...” she slurred slightly, feeling heavy from the drink and heat, “I almost always feel thirteen.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Of course! I had only two friends, and buck teeth, and was so awkward...” she trailed off now. “I suppose I still am that way. I never felt pretty like other girls do.”

“Here we go,” Blaise said, rolling his eyes. “Granger's angst comes out. I didn't reckon you for a crying drunk.”

“Weasley,” she said absently. “It's Weasley now.”

Again Blaise did not acknowledge it. “You must have never had an awkward phase,” she continued on, after taking another long swig of her wine. This was all against her better judgment, but it was so nice to sink into tipsiness, to forget herself for a little while. She was not drunk yet, just tipsy, but she was certainly on her way to being drunk.

“Physically? No.”

“But did you ever feel lost, did you ever feel awkward,” she pressed on, searching Blaise's eyes that she now realized were precisely the color of the riviera. Blaise's expression hardened.

“You're nosy as always,” he remarked, not flinching away from her gaze. Hermione leaned closer.

“You're impenetrable as always.”

“I didn't realize you were trying to penetrate me.” His eyes glimmered wickedly with humor, and Hermione snorted into her glass, before breaking out into full-out laughter. Soon, Blaise was chuckling as well.

“Oh, this is terrible,” she sighed. “I'm drunk now, and it's barely one in the afternoon, and I still have to decode those runes!”

“You'll be finished before tea,” Blaise said, sniggering. “But we ought to get going, at any rate. You're getting sunburnt.”

Hermione found herself giggling at this inanely, alerting her to the fact that she was quite pissed.

“Oh, this is embarrassing,” she mumbled, as they meandered back to the cottage. The air was heady with the scent of flowers and the sea and Blaise, and it was so different from grey, cold, wet London, and she didn't even feel like she was in her own  _life_  anymore. “I can't believe I got pissed at lunch.”

“I can't wait to tell everyone,” said Blaise devilishly. “It'll just make me look better.”

“Typical Slytherin,” Hermione sulked, and then Blaise was laughing—a genuine laugh. Her breath caught in her throat again, and she wondered if she would ever  _not_  be attracted to Blaise.

They reached the cottage, and Blaise went off to shower and prep for a meeting with more French wizarding diplomats, and though Hermione intended on getting straight to work, she found she was too tipsy to make sense of the runes, and instead found herself donning her bathing suit—a modest lilac one-piece that was so old it was sagging on the arse—and traipsing down to their private stretch of beach.

The water was warm and the sand was rough between her toes. She dipped her head under and paddled about, the water partially shaded by trees, and got lost in her own thoughts. The logical, pragmatic side of her was urging her to sober up and get to work, but the drunk half of her was pushing that side down and doing breast strokes about the shallows happily. She hadn't had a vacation in years, and though this was not actually a vacation, it felt so much like one that she hardly cared. For once, she forgot about her own grief, she forgot about Rose and Hugo, she forgot about her guilt for not being a good wife to Ron—she was just Hermione again, floating in the water, and lazily contemplating immersing herself in pure, ancient, lovely runes for as long as she liked.

After her fingertips became pruny and wrinkly, she waded back to the shore, and dropped down on the towel she had laid out in the shade. She had intended on waiting until she dried off, but before she knew it, she was curled on her side on the towel and fast asleep.

* * *

“I can't _believe_ you fell asleep. Wake up, Granger.”

“Weasley,” Hermione mumbled, her eyes still shut. Where was she? She was cold, and lying on something scratchy, and for some reason, she could hear the ocean.

She opened her eyes and instantly regretted it. Her head was trying to split itself in half, and her belly gave a nauseating lurch. She groaned, pressing her hand to her temple, and looked up to find Blaise staring down at her, wearing immaculate evergreen robes, silhouetted against a twilit sky. “Merlin's pants! Did I really fall asleep?” She attempted to scramble to her feet, but Blaise smirked and knelt down, holding her down.

“I wouldn't recommend getting up so fast, if I were you. You appear to have a hangover.”

“Glad to know you find this amusing,” Hermione grumbled, lying back down on her towel gingerly as the world spun around her. “I cannot believe how irresponsible I am being.”

“Neither can I,” drawled Blaise. “You're a mess.” He paused and rose out of his crouch. “Stay there—I'll go grab you a blanket and some hangover remedy.”

 _You're a mess._ His words hit harder than expected, and as he walked away, Hermione felt the beginnings of tears. She was cold, hungover, and having unfaithful thoughts, and she hadn't done any of the work that she was supposed to have been doing. What was wrong with her?

Blaise soon returned, bearing a large grey jumper that she assumed was his, and a tumbler filled with a smoking green potion. “Cheers,” he said dryly, clinking his own glass of water with her potion. Hermione knocked back the potion, grimacing at its burning taste, though immediately her nausea and headache were significantly quelled. She accepted the jumper hesitantly, and put it on over her swimsuit, just as it occurred to her to be embarrassed about her appearance. Her suit was not so flattering, and it sagged awkwardly in the chest as well. She wondered if Blaise had seen anything as her heart rate began to pick up again in shame. What must he think of her, she wondered?

“I'm sorry,” she finally said, setting the glass in the sand and pulling the jumper down to cover her bum. It smelled like him. “You're right, I am a mess. I don't think I realized just how much I was.”

“Please, if this is some sort of epiphany, stop and wait until I've gone and at least had a drink,” he begged, holding up his hands. “I'm not sure I can take witnessing a revelation.”

Hermione grinned in spite of everything.

“You're not so bad, you know,” she said shyly. “You're being quite nice right now.”

Blaise rested his elbows on his knees and looked away.

“Don't tell anyone; I wouldn't want to tarnish my reputation.”

“I won't, worry not,” she soothed with a smile. For a moment they sat there in silence, as Hermione grasped at possible things to say. But nothing really came to mind, for all of her clever words. “Don't tell anyone about how much of a mess I am,” she finally said in turn. Blaise snorted.

“I doubt anyone would believe me if I tried.”

“How was your afternoon?” she made another stab at 'normal' conversation, even as she wondered how Ron would feel about what had already passed between her and Blaise.  _I'll just have to be extra professional for the rest of the trip,_ she resolved, as she watched Blaise process her question. There would be none of this nonsense any more—no more drinking around Blaise, she decided. Evidently it brought out the worst in her, a sort of worst that she wasn't aware she even had.

“Useless. I am a good person to send to deal with the French, but they regard me as an exception to the British rule,” explained Blaise. Hermione hugged the sweater closer to her body instinctively.

“Do you enjoy your job?”

“Do you enjoy yours?” he parried.

“In theory,” she said with a shrug. “It doesn't end up being exactly what was in the job description...”

“Well, there you go. That's always the way with Ministry jobs,” said Blaise dryly. Hermione leaned forward in spite of her previous resolutions.

“What do you love, then?” she prompted curiously. Blaise's eyes flicked to her briefly before settling back over the ocean.

“Beautiful women and good wine,” he finally replied. Hermione snorted, rolling her eyes.

“Well I'm not sure why you joined the Ministry then, given all that,” she said. “I suppose we should head inside now.”

They went back into the cottage; Hermione showered and used a cleaning charm to freshen up Blaise's jumper, and crept into his room and left it folded on the bed, though she was, for whatever odd reason, reluctant to let it go. It was silly, really—the sort of foolishness barely tolerated in a young girl, let alone a grown woman.

* * *

Hermione made good on her resolution; for five whole days, she did not have another unprofessional moment with Blaise. He was hardly ever there, anyway. Every night he was out late, going to exclusive parties, and every morning he slept until noon to recover from his wild nights. Hermione, on the other hand, got up at the crack of dawn each day to go for a solitary walk along the private beach and then spent the rest of the day holed up in her room, relentlessly decoding. The work was engrossing; she had not had this much of a challenge in years.

The desk in her room was positioned underneath a window, and looked out over the spectacular garden filled with magical herbs and flora, and she left the door to the balcony open. The soft sea breeze toyed with the curtains and left bursts of tantalizing, balmy air that soothed her in ways she had not realized she had been needing.

However, on Friday afternoon, all that came to a screeching halt.

Blaise appeared in the doorway to the balcony that afternoon, clad in his usual impeccably tailored trousers and a crisp white oxford that contrasted with his dark skin. Hermione pushed away from the desk, inwardly cringing at how she must look in comparison. She had not bothered to keep up with her usual hair routine, and not only that, the salty air was doing terrible things for it. She had simply thrown on jeans and one of Ron's old Chudley Cannons tees, and orange had never been a good color for her.

“Granger, you have got to get out of this room,” he remarked, regarding her with amusement. “How are the runes going, anyway?”  _Weasley,_  she thought, but neglected to say out loud.

“Well, I'm almost done, I think.” She held up her notes, which comprised a large stack of parchment. Blaise rolled his eyes.

“Typical,” he sighed. “Well, I've got an assignment for you. Several, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Put away the notes, find a _presentable_ dress, and be ready to leave by six o'clock tonight.”

“Zabini,” she sighed. “I'm not good at going to these functions. I'm far better suited to sitting at a desk, decoding and solving puzzles,” she said, gesturing to the desk before her piled high with her work. Blaise crossed his taut arms over his svelte chest.

“Perhaps, for the sake of argument, consider that I simply want you to go, and it has nothing to do with work,” he suggested. Hermione's cheeks flushed and she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Playing Devil's Advocate, are we?”

“I rather prefer to think I'm more of a devil than his advocate,” he parried. “Anyway, you haven't a choice, because  _technically_ —and I did look this up to be certain—you are my subordinate.”

“That—that is unbelievable,” she sputtered indignantly. Blaise laughed as he went onto the balcony.

“Unbelievable, yes, but so very convenient.”

* * *

Three hours later, Hermione stood in front of her mirror, turning this way and that. After further pestering Blaise, he had finally agreed to come with her to help her find what he deemed to be a 'presentable' dress. And, truthfully, she trusted his taste.

Blaise had not disappointed her, either. The deep emerald shift he had picked was simple but flattering—exactly the sort of thing she liked. After they had parted ways, Blaise insisting that there was only so much time he could bear to spend doing things for others, Hermione had guiltily purchased matching shoes in another boutique, as well as a matching bag. They certainly had the funds, but she hated to be so...materialistic and girly. It didn't suit her—and yet, she was rather enjoying herself.

After that, she had booked an emergency hair appointment at the local salon, which had turned out disastrous results, so she had sprinted back to the villa and hastily washed the style out before putting it into a sleek bun. It was simple and not very sexy, but it was  _her_  and it was the best she had looked in years, as far as she was concerned.

“Ready? Granger, I never took you for a girly girl,” Blaise called from the other side of the door.

“Weasley,” she corrected loudly as she sprayed on a tiny bit of perfume before deeming herself ready. She opened the door. Blaise was garbed in crisp black dress robes that heightened the drama and precision in his features.

It would have been inappropriate for either of them to compliment each other further than a simple “you look nice,” and thus that was all they did. However, there it was again—a heightened awareness of Blaise, his attraction, and all that attraction represented.

The function was at the French Ministry and included a number of important Witches and Wizards. Hermione turned down all liquor, knowing that she got irresponsible around Blaise when tipsy, and instead made it her mission to network.

However, far too many of the guests assumed they were together, until they learned of Hermione's identity as one of the Golden Trio. It caused some awkwardness that Blaise never failed to smooth over, and she had to respect him for his ability to sail through any social debacle.

He truly was brilliant at his job, and she had to admire him for it. He did not have an easy job, but he performed flawlessly. He was the picture of social grace—witty in conversation, carefully flattering to just the right degree without ever seeming simpering or sycophantic, and knowledgeable on so many political issues that he would have put most of the people in Hermione's own department to shame.

“How do you do it?” Hermione queried in a low voice, as they reunited in the corner of the garden party, underneath twinkling fairy lights. Blaise's lips quirked and he sipped at his glass of wine.

“It took me a while to learn the game, but once you learn, it's like riding a bike.”

“How Muggle of you,” she teased, though her teasing certainly carried a certain weight and significance. To her surprise, his blue eyes darkened. “I mean, about learning to ride a bike,” she clarified. Blaise said nothing.

“You seem to have a problem with living in the past,” he finally said. Hermione scoffed.

“ _I_  do? You're the one who's always calling me 'Granger.' I haven't been Hermione Granger in twenty years.”

“And are you actually happy about that?”

This silenced Hermione. She pressed her lips together.

“Yes,” she finally said, “I am. I have two lovely children and am married to the most wonderful husband in the world.”

Blaise mimicked talking with his hand, rolling his eyes.

“Blah blah blah,” he said, “heard it all before.”

“You just can't believe that anyone could be happy in marriage because your mother never could.”

She had expected more of a reaction to this, but Blaise's face was as impassive as ever.

“Maybe that's true. Or, maybe I just can't believe that a woman who gets drunk at lunch and has crying spells in her office that she thinks no one sees and wears baggy clothes to hide her body is happy.”

Hermione choked on her water; she had to turn away as humiliation bloomed on her cheeks. Blaise's hand, unexpectedly, set on her shoulder. “Weasley is passive as ever in being your husband, and all too happy to let you take the lead—even if you clearly have no idea of where you're going; even if you clearly would happily lead him into hell.”

Years ago, she would have served up some cool retort to Blaise before Hexing the daylights out of him and storming off and locking him, magically, out of the cottage—but she was older now. Moments of clarity, she knew now, were rarer than shooting stars and just as fleeting. Blaise was trying to show her something, and she could either run from it, or she could choose to meet it for what it was.

He was right. She may have had every reason to be happy, but in spite of it, she was _not_ happy. She stood there, tensed and rigid, staring at the party goers in their glittering jewels and fine robes, and feeling  Blaise's intense gaze on her.

“This is really not the place for this confrontation,” she finally said, turning back to Blaise.

“Oh? But don't you realize that a big party is one of the most intimate places you could be?”

“And now you're quoting F. Scott Fitzgerald—again I wonder how you got into Slytherin if you're such a lover of Muggle things.”

“Slytherin isn't just about Purebloods, though people who prize bloodlines also tend to have Slytherin qualities. Typical Gryffindor, to lump everyone together into groups to make their own lives more managable.”

Blaise stepped back, and narrowed his eyes. “We'll stand on the terrace for a bit. Fresh air might help.” Without asking, without making sure she even  _wanted_  to go outside with him, he guided her by the elbow through the crowd and out to the slate-stone terrace. The night was cool and the air was fragrant and heavy with flora; the stars were winking at them. Goosebumps rose along Hermione's bare skin at the chill.

“Well, you're not happy either. I know you aren't.” She paused, took a swig of water, still feeling Blaise's eyes on her. She wished he would look away and yet she had never been so  _admired_  before. She was not used to this much visual attention. In a way, deep down, she almost could enjoy it. She let out a sigh now, and turned to meet his gaze. “Does it ever get any easier?”

“Yes, and then it gets harder again,” said Blaise wryly. “...Do you love Weasley?”

“Yes, with all my heart—unfortunately. It does pain me to admit it,” she giggled, recalling the images of 'Mr. Right' she had conjured in her mind's eye as a little girl. These images had certainly never remotely resembled Ron in any way shape or form—in fact, they had probably looked more like Blaise than anyone else—but there it was. She loved her husband, in spite of it all. “Don't you love anyone?” she prompted. Blaise shoved his hands in the pockets of his fine dress robes.

“Maybe,” he evaded simply. His eyes had darkened in the moonlight, and a shiver ran across her skin for entirely different reasons. “But what is love, anyway? It's such a changeable thing. It's not some sort of magical permanent decision.”

“No, it is hard work,” she agreed softly, thinking of Ron sitting with her on the bedspread— _their_  bedspread—holding her hand and crying silently. Love was very hard work indeed.

“I prefer lust,” Blaise stated, interrupting her reverie with such a revelation. “When it ends, it ends. It runs its course, you act on it or not, and then return to life as usual. It's not fulfilling, but then, it's not so all-consuming, either,” he reasoned. When their eyes met again, she involuntarily thought of his lips on her neck, pulling at her skin sensuously, and she felt her skin heat. Good thing it was dark.

“Lust _is_ good,” she replied vaguely. And right now, her mind was clouded over with lust for  Blaise. It was cliché, but she was on fire, and she longed for him as she had never longed, physically, for a man before. She loved Ron but Blaise was something so different.

When he whispered, “Granger,” and dipped his head down to brush his lips against hers, she did not fight him like she should have. Rather, she gave in, sinking into the kiss, before clarity returned—again, so fleeting—and she pulled back abruptly.

“Weasley,” she corrected firmly, pleadingly, gripping her water glass, slippery with condensation, in both hands as an anchor to reality: reality, where she was married, sometimes happily, and had two children to think of. Blaise arched his brows, his smooth hand brushing over her cheek. He was truly like a siren, and she almost felt herself giving in again as her knees weakened. 

“I know you want me.” His voice was hoarse, on the verge of desperation. Hermione had never seen him so unraveled. “Just for the weekend. We can pretend, and then go back to life as it always was.”

“Whatever for?” Hermione asked, placing her hand on his and pulling it away. “Why would I risk my marriage for a weekend-long affair?”

Blaise's lips twitched.

“I think a lot of women would call it a reasonable trade,” he said with a smirk. Hermione scowled and stepped back.

“I don't need to take this. I'm going back to the cottage, and you will find my door firmly  _locked_  when you return,” she said acidly, before turning on the spot and Disapparating.

* * *

In spite of the satisfaction of having taken the moral high road, Hermione felt sick as she sat in her bed that evening, ears strained as she alternated between desperately listening for his return and then chiding herself viciously for such behavior. She was forty-five years old; she was simply too old for this nonsense, and so was Blaise.

And yet... there in her belly lurked a dangerous warmth, and every time her traitorous clever mind brought her images of her intimate with Blaise, that warmth only intensified.  _No one would ever have to know... it would just be a secret.... we would return to life as usual..._

She was disgusted with herself for thinking these thoughts. How dare she, after all of the patience, love, and loyalty that Ron had displayed over the years? His love was unconditional and evidently she deserved none of it.

Thus for several hours she wallowed in self-hatred, until finally, round one in the morning, she began to worry. Was Blaise alright? The event had started rather early, so it should not have gone on this long; unless he was attending another one...? Worried, as she was wont to be, Hermione cautiously unlocked her door and crept out onto the balcony, her thin filmy nightdress fluttering about her legs. She raised her hand to knock on Blaise's door when a noise distracted her, and she turned to look at the beach, where it had come from.

The sound of fabric fluttering wafted through the balmy night air as Blaise pulled his dress robes over his head with lean, taut, dark arms, and dropped them onto the sand. Her mouth went dry and against her better judgment, she stepped forward, clutching the railing and becoming riveted to the sight. In the bright moonlight, his skin appeared almost silver.

Slowly, he waded into the water. She watched the warm mediterranean water lap at his legs, then his hips, then his waist, and for several moments he stood in silence, staring out at the ocean. She had no idea of what he was thinking, and she could not even begin to hazard a guess. He was entirely enigmatic, changeable, unpredictable, and enticing; like lust itself. Both warm and cold, soft and hard, light and dark.

She gripped the railing so hard her knuckles bleached as the epiphany hit her: every time she thought of Blaise longingly, she compared him to her husband—and rediscovered a new way she loved Ron.

 _I need this,_  she realized.

Impulsively, not letting herself stop and  _think_  as she was so given toward, she sprinted through her room, down the stairs, and out the front door, onto the beach, her feet sinking into the white sand with soft sounds as delicate as whispers.

“Blaise,” she called out, her heart racing. Blaise looked back over a svelte shoulder at her; his face was impassive. Lion-hearted and warm-blooded, Hermione bit her lip and tugged her nightdress over her head, revealing her own nakedness in all of its flawed beauty. Blaise did not avert his eyes as she left the thin white cotton garment on the sand next to his robes and began walking slowly, reverently, towards the water.

They met in the middle, where the water just hit the tops of their thighs, and immediately Blaise pressed a kiss to her jaw, using his strong hands to bring her in close to him. She sank against him with a sigh as tears burned her eyes; they were tears of relief.

She had not thought she was capable of this feeling anymore.

His hands moved roughly against her skin, gripping her; together they moved backward to the surf and fell into the sand. Her legs twined round his hips and they kissed, his hardness pressing against her wet sex. He ran his tongue over her lips and she lightly bit down on his, digging her fingers into the hard lines of his back.

For a moment, he pulled back, looking at her questioningly, and she nodded, her eyes still wet with tears.

To her surprise, Blaise picked her up, her legs still twined around his hips, and carried her back into the cottage. In the cool darkness of the house he pressed her against the wall, as they dripped saltwater all over the floor boards, and as their lips slid against each other desperately, his hand traveled downward and grazed over her breast, while the other massaged her hip. He trailed his lips back to her neck and she threw her head back, allowing him to graze his teeth against her collarbone. His hand moved from her hip to her sex and he pressed his palm against it before grinding into it slowly.

She let out a moan, embarrassed at her reaction to him, and rolled her hips against his erection.

It wasn't long before they moved to her bedroom. A light was on and she was stunned that he did not make any motion to turn it off after he had laid her down on top of the covers.

She guided him inside her and they both sighed with something akin to relief at the connection before moving together, slowly almost languorously at first, then fast, rough, and desperate.

She cried out as her climax neared, and scrunched her eyes shut as she cried with tears of relief and happiness. She hadn't thought she would ever want this again, but she  _did,_  and as Blaise grunted and found his release, she did as well—thinking only of Ron and his kind blue eyes and wry half-smile that she loved to kiss.

* * *

The next morning when she woke up, Blaise was lying next to her on his side, with his back turned to her. The space between them seemed infinite yet infinitesimal. The light streaming in cast the room in fresh clear sunlight, and for the first time in a long time, it mirrored her inner state. She wanted nothing more than to go home to Ron, and oh, the  _relief_  of such a feeling...! She could not even begin to bring herself to feel guilty for what had passed between them; it had been worth it.

"Morning," she said, her voice still raspy from sleep. Blaise groaned and hid his head under the pillow, earning a giggle from Hermione. "Thanks...for last night," she said awkwardly, picking at the coverlet, as the reality of the situation slightly dampened her spirits. What would happen now?

"You've never had a one night stand, evidently," came his muffled, sleepy, but disdainful as ever voice. Hermione bristled in irritation.

"Evidently'?! What is that supposed to mean?!"

Blaise lifted his head from its hiding place and regarded her with darkly glimmering eyes filled with amusement at her expense.

"You're not supposed to  _thank_  someone for sex, Weasley," he sniggered, before dropping back against the pillows. Hermione's throat tightened; for the first time ever, he had gotten her name right.

Was it significant?

"Well, what  _are_  you supposed to do, then?"

"Hm. Walk of shame, writhe in guilt and embarrassment all week; then next weekend do it all over again," he postulated, stretching languidly, displaying his taut skin. Though he was clearly being funny, there was a hollowness to his voice that saddened her. 

"Why did you sleep with me?" 

"Because I wanted to."

"Is that why you agreed to go on the trip with me?" She almost didn't want to hear his answer, and she tensed, ready to cringe. 

"...Yes, and no. I put work before play, and this task is one of convenience. I didn't plan on sleeping with you, but I did want your company exclusively." He was so frank and direct, and his answer had not been the one she had been expecting, or the one she had been hoping for. Hermione frowned, but before she could speak, Blaise continued, "I was the one who insisted you were more valuable than any of the Ministry's resident rune experts, because I know you are, and because I wanted the chance to see if you were really all that I had imagined over the years."

...Over the years? Hermione had to chew on this for a moment. Did this mean he had felt the attraction between them all this time, as well? 

"And?" she prompted hesitantly. 

"You were different than I expected. You're not the same person you were at fifteen, but then, I suppose everyone changes between fifteen and thirty-five."

"How observant of you," she remarked dryly. "Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

Blaise did not respond to this. Cautiously, Hermione pressed her hand to his bare back. His skin was cool to the touch; Ron's was always warm, even on the coldest, darkest days of winter. "You were different than I expected too, you know," she said when he did not respond. Blaise's shoulders shook as he scoffed. 

"So then you understand," he replied. "It is neither good nor bad—it just _is_. That's lust for you. One minute it is eating you alive...the next, it is hard to even remember what it felt like."

He was right, she realized abruptly. Her desire for Blaise, the desire that had caused her so much grief and guilt, was unexpectedly gone—erased, forgotten. 

* * *

A few days later, Hermione had finished her decoding work. The time not spent decoding, she and Blaise cooked together, and had invigorating debates. By Monday, it was time to go home. Hermione was longing to see Ron, desperately, and when she finally did Apparate back to their house, she ran to Ron's warm, familiar embrace with tears in her eyes.That night, and the next, and the next, they made love. 

At first, at work, she and Blaise maintained the routine of friendship they had established in Cannes—but every now and then, desire, unexpected and unbidden, roared within her for Blaise. Their eyes would meet across the desk or from across the room, and the look they would share would scald her with its power. She would remember their night together, feeling desperate and hungering for him.

Then it'd be gone again.


End file.
